A Study in Floodgates, Balance and the Art of Tipping Scales
by SincerelyChaos
Summary: It's not pathological, but it's not healthy either, thought John, as he pondered on why let this mess of (perhaps) a relationship continue to make them both even more absurd and rabid. We are more than the sum of our symptoms, and this is perhaps a love story, but it's also a story in which each chapter illustrates a term or diagnostic criteria related to psychiatry.
1. Interlude

**Of balance...**

1,5 years after John and Sherlock become flatmates, there's an odd sort of balance in 221B.

There're things that are shared; the Work, John's laptop, the flat and a rather unique friendship, or partnership, if you rather.

There're also things that are not shared; the household work, the skull and, most importantly, a pretty extensive list of personal issues.

There's a balance in this, but a balance is only working until something tips the scale.

And without that balance, all that remains are two persons that might be rather bonkers, a bit damaged from life and maybe just a bit unused to intimacy, but also quite madly in love with each other.

**...and the art of tipping scales.**

If the frail balance of their life together was to be measured by a scale, there would be several things that would need to be in appropriate amounts in relation to each other in order not to tip the scale.

For one, there would have to be a balance between the things they shared (which were quite a few since they both lived and partially worked together) and the things they kept to themselves.

There would also need to be a proportionate amount of things in their respective lives that revolved around the each other and things in their lives that wasn't dependant on the other one of them.

Last, there they would need to make sure that they put the same weight on some issues, on some emotions and on the importance (and definition) of who they were to each other.

One and a half year after they first moved in together in the cozy, yet sometimes biohazardous, flat in Baker Street, they seemed to have found that delicate balance. It was not normality as other people would define it, but it was some kind of predictability even in the unpredictable lives they led. John learned not to be shocked over things he found in different and increasingly more inventive places in the flat, Sherlock learned to deduce part of what made John go from cozy-jumper-wearing food-nagger to determined soldier (loyalty, sense of justice or protectiveness seemed to be three things that induced this blink-of-an-eye-fast change) and they both learned which limits not to cross when it came to personal integrity in order to keep their partnership strangely intimate and hard to define, but still platonic.

But none of the things that needed to be in balance was fixed in either weight or measure, and therefore it perhaps was unavoidable that the scale would, one day, tip to one side. It was however not entirely expected that the balance would be so upset that the scale would not only tip to one side, but completely tip and fall over, spilling all that it used to measure all over the walls and the floor.

Somehow, that was still what happened, although it at first would not seem to be so dramatic as it later turned out to be. And it happened, as it seems to be with so many of those life altering events , because of a few words that didn't really seem so important at the time, but planted some kind of idea or thought and then... grew to take over the entire metaphorical green house of thoughts.

Later, Sherlock would think of the day they first began to touch each other, little by little, without the pretext of pure platonic partnership, as The Opening of the Floodgates, which was a metaphor he could truly use, since the feeling of drowning was very notable during the time that followed after that first touch.

**_Note;_**

So, basically, this was the interlude.

From next chapter on, every chapter will be titled with a reference to psychiatry, and illustrating, in more or less pathological ways, the term or criteria in the title. Some of it might be light and some of it might be a little more on the unhealthy side, just like these terms and symptoms are in real life.


	2. Chapter 2 - Euthymia

_Sherlock POV_

'Are you alright?'

John's question came just as the man himself turned from the fridge to look suspiciously at Sherlock. Sherlock, who was reading a textbook on pharmacology (it had proved to increasingly important for cases, since half of London seemed to digest at least half a pharmacy a month to keep their bodies and minds in check. They really needed to learn how to discipline their transports) and ignoring a plate of eggs in front of him. Hardly a cause for concern.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows inquiring, eyes returning to the page he was scanning.

'I mean, there hasn't been a really interesting case for the last couple of weeks...'

'Not since the curry and cocaine smuggling case two weeks and four days ago, no' Sherlock interjected helpfully.

'...right. Not since three week and four days ago, then. And, sure, you've kept yourself busy, the smaller cases from the blog, Lestrade's chain of robberies, the new website design, that... eh, thing you did with the carpet in the hallway...'

'It was to prove that the blood splatter on an uneven textile material...' Sherlock began, but was immediately interrupted by John, who seemed to want to end his little talk sooner rather than later, and also seemed to want to do that without Sherlock's undeniably helpful and enlightening input. Dull.

'Yes, yes, case-related and certainly not just out of pure mischeif, right. I see.' John inhaled, and carried on. 'Anyway, there's been almost three weeks without an interesting case, and still the walls are intact, no truly hazardous experiments have been made, at least not any that I'm currently aware of, and after the curry case, you didn't even have your usual post-case crash.'

'Post-case crash?' There was obvious mockery in Sherlock's way to repeat John's unimpressive term for the crushing boredom that sometimes (ok, maybe a majority of the times) after a case was solved and life returned to it's usual tedious, uninspiring and brain-rottening mist.

'Yeah. Post-case crash' John said, as if Sherlock's tone hadn't mocked him a bit. Annoying. As was this entire conversation. 'You didn't have one. And the flat is still intact three weeks later. I don't mean to complain, obviously, I'm very pleased not to have to sleep at Harry's or Mike's due to acid incidents, trust me. But you have to understand, it has begun to creep me out a bit. It's like knowing that there'll be an earthquake, but the seismographs are yet to pick up on any unusual activity.'

'If the siesmographs doesn't pick up on something, then how do you know that there will be an earthquake?' Sherlock was forced to inquire.

'It would... never mind. Just, answer this; Are you alright?'

Sherlock glared at John, let his gaze rest at him in that way he'd been told since childhood was very unsettling for most people. John had never looked away to avoid his gaze when he did it. Not even that first day, at the lab at Bart's.

He thought he might answer John, but then decided against it on the grounds of it being a boring question based on a pretty half-hearted attempt at deduction. There might have been an other reason as well for not answering this, but that was for later examination. When John had left for work at the cough-and-puke place he choose over being constantly ready for something Not Boring.

The second reason might have something to do with Sherlock himself not being sure why he was alright. Because, he realised, quite unsettled, he was alright. And he really shouldn't have been alright after two weeks and four days without anything all-consumingly interesting to set his mind on.

But he was.

* * *

When John had hurried of to the cough-and-puke place for 8 hours of wasting his skills as a trauma surgeon, Sherlock let his eyes drift from the page on different psychiatric drugs effects on the kidneys (not a particularly uplifting reading if you happened to have been treated for bipolar disease in the 50's) and into the kitchen cupboards. Not that he was more interested in kitchen attire than kidneys, but it since it is impossible to literally stare into blank space, the cupboards would have to do.

Why on earth was he alright? He should be no means be alright. Yet, he wasn't climbing any literal or metaphorical walls, he wasn't crushed into apathy by the black cloud of boredom, he wasn't manically running experiments meanwhile ignoring every irritating need of his transport and he wasn't on drugs. All this was so unexpected that he granted it worthy of half an hour of analysis, which made him no wiser as to why he wasn't in fact destroying something or risking his or someone else's life just because it wasn'tthateasy to be bored when there was lives at stake, even for Sherlock Holmes.

Was this some sort of new phase in his life, where he settled and his brain began to unwind itself from the meta-meta-meta-thoughts it was usually running by this time, so long after a good distraction? No. Hardly likely. His brain had not changed in any significant way since he was out of that hateful puberty. It would likely continue to be brilliant, genius and quite frankly a night-mare to live inside while no distractions or drugs where within reach.

No. This was most likely an temporary deviation from what was 'normal' or 'expected' for him. A temporary relief, if you will. The cause of it still unknown, but the effects of it clear.

He was alright. For now.

* * *

Of course, things couldn't continue to be 'alright'. The following day, he began noticing a recurrent bodily sensation, which may or may not be psychosomatic. Diagnostics where to be run, clearly. The sensation made it's third appearance that evening when he was sitting with the John's laptop (the keys felt somewhat nicer to his fingers than his own, oddly, but he would never explain to John that that was the reason he often used his computer) on his knees, legs crossed under him in the leather chair that was since that first evening with John in the flat, inevitably his, as the more old-fashioned chair opposite of it was now, likewise inevitably John's). He was working his way through the comment section on his newly updated and redesigned website, and John was doing some sort of weird and rather ineffective form of cleaning. He mostly seemed to move things into piles, and then move the piles only to sort through them again. A recognisable sign that John was thinking about something, deep in his thoughts. Then suddenly, John raised his eyes from a pile of paperbacks on the floor in front of him, met Sherlock's eyes and slowly made an odd little smile. It was more of a twitch of the left side of his mouth, really, but it clearly registered as a smile in Sherlock's brain, where a very extensive catalog of John Watson's facial expressions and body language was stored and regularly updated. And, there it was. The sensation, in the midst of all the frankly alarming domesticity currently in the 221B.

Running self-diagnostics might be tedious, but the transport is, even though it ought to be well-trained from years of discipline, still somewhat a mystery to Sherlock Holmes. Right now, for example, there's no reason for palpations, yet, there they are. More fascination than annoying, if Sherlock is to be honest with himself, and he attempts to be very and strictly honest with himself, since he sees through his own lies anyway. And there's few things that's as boring as a bad liar.

_Common causes for palpations include (but is not restricted to):_

stress (seems unlikely, arguing with morons on one's website is more irritating than stressful, really)

coffein, nicotin, pharmaceuticals or cocaine (certainly there's a high intake regarding the first to, but there's thankfully a total lack of the third and, somewhat annoyingly, more or less impossible to use the forth and still maintain access to crime scenes)

anemia (dull, unless you're bleeding out, in which case it's... at least not dull. And leads to medical attention from ex-army doctors)

heart-disease (not very likely if you've been told that you don't have a heart, is it?)

Wait. Best not rule that last one, the one about the heart. At least not on the grounds of not having a heart. That would be a paradox, the heart not being the cause of sensations originated from said heart, because said heart being none-existent.

So. Heart-disease. Angina, endocarditis, myocarditis, heart failure, heart attacks, arythmia...

...being in love?

Where would such a preposterous thought originate from? And why? Was the 'being alright' from before just the calm before some sort of fallacy appeared and made sure he would drive himself of the rails?

Suddenly, he was not alright any more.

He was not alright at all.

* * *

_**End notes;**_

Euthymia according to the all-knowing Wikipedia:

Euthymia is a normal non-depressed, reasonably positive mood. It is distinguished from hyperthymia, which refers to an extremely happy mood, and dysthymia, which refers to a depressed mood. It is a term used frequently in mental status exams.

The term is also sometimes used referring to the neutral mood (absence of a depressive or manic cycle) that some people with bipolar disorder experience with varying frequency.


	3. Chapter 3 - Codependency

_John POV_

* * *

John wasn't Sherlock's keeper in quite the same way that Mrs. Hudson wasn't their housekeeper.

Sherlock didn't need a keeper. He was, after all, a grown man. Sure, he behaved like a child on an almost daily basis, and sure, in many, he needed John. But he didn't need a keeper, he needed a friend. A friend, colleague and a flatmate. One with almost endless patience, one that was hard to shock. Sherlock had once called John his 'conductor of light', but John had slowly come to think of himself as more of a bufferbetween Sherlock and the rest of the world, someone to lessen the blow from people around them when Sherlock had once again done or said something 'a bit not good'. John could do that for Sherlock, so Sherlock could be fantastic and genius and not get held back simply because he hadn't bothered to learn to be civil. Somehow, against his own intention, John had begun to see Sherlock as someone who was so brilliant and had so much to give that his 'bit not good'-sides should be overlooked, at least every now and then. And until everyone else realised and accepted that fact, well, John supposed that he could be a buffer. Just every now and then, just when it was really necessary. Which, as it turned out, was quite often.

There wereother things that werealso necessary that John kept an eye on. Like Sherlock's 'moods', as he called them in his own thoughts. Right now, for example, there was a pretty sudden 'mood' incoming. It had begun just a few hours after John had taken the risk of asking Sherlock if he was alright, and he now wondered if that perhaps had been what caused this snappish, avoidant mood that had taken over their flat for the last two days.

Two days ago, Sherlock had suddenly stopped typing in his impressive speed on John's laptop, slammed it closed and then had gone on to stare in front of him for a couple of minutes before almost throwing the laptop aside, walkinhright over the low table in front of him and out to the door, grabbing his scarf and coat, then slamming the door behind him. Bewildered, John had wondered what on earth it was that Sherlock had seen on the internet that had ended the relative peace and quiet from the last weeks. Than he had continued to sort through his paperbacks, far too used to his arrogant, unpredictable and dramatic flatmate to even try to understand what had just happened. It was just how things were. And John took pride in being calm in almost every weather or storm. So his paperbacks got sorted, while his thoughts got back to where they had been before Sherlock's histrionic display of frustration. He hadn't mentioned anything to Sherlock about what he was pondering over, not yet, it was too soon, the thought was too partial yet. He wondered if Sherlock had deduced his musings yet. Probably not, because Sherlock always enjoyed a good showing off, and even more, Sherlock always loved shocking John by declaring John's own thoughts before John had even had a chance to finish them.

The thing was, he really didn't want Sherlock's thoughts on this matter, not now. Not until he had decided for himself. This was one of the few matters in his life that actually didn't revolve around Sherlock, the Work or their friendship. This was all John's own, a part of his life that didn't really interest Sherlock enough that he would intervene, or even pry. Just mutter, sulk and then ignore.

The matter in question was John's work. Not the Work, of course, but John's own work at the clinic. Sherlock thought it a waste of time, a waste of John's skills and a waste of breath, basically. John had appreciated the mundane at the beginning, it had been a counterbalanceto his nightmares, the crime-solving and the mad scientist doing experiments in the kitchen. Now, he had slowly become aware that he was, as Sherlock would put it, 'bored'. He knew he was doing important work, even if it wasn't anything like the rush and risk of stoping arterial bleeding in close to a warzone. He knew his patients liked him, that he made them feel safe, that they needed the way he could adopt different parts of his personality to reach out to them. Joking pretty boldly, and, if he was honest, a bit tastelessly, with Joanna the middle aged woman he often treated for her recurrent airway infections. Being silently strong, determined and soldierlike, but still professionally kind with Mr Roberts, who was beginning to show signs of Alzheimers, but refused to listen to anyone except 'that military doc', who he thought was the only 'non fuzzying bloody do-gooder' at the clinic. Nodding understandingly, playing out his 'cardigan-and-short-older-person' bit with the scared teenage boy who refused to give his name, but in the end managed to explain that he might have needed to be tested for STD's. John knew that that was important, and that he used his skills, but still, it didn't quite seem like enough anymore.

The problem was perhaps that he saw what he did at the clinic in comparison to his life with Sherlock. His life with Sherlock was difficult, demanding, annoying and a bit like being a dog walker for thirteen stray dogs with clinical symptoms of ADHD at times. But it was also stimulating, gave him a sense of belonging, kept him from getting stuck in his thoughts and kept the PTSD (and its associated limp, thank you very much) in check somewhat. His life outside of Sherlock, mainly a few old friends, the up-and-down relationship with his sister and his work was… not any of these things. It was ordinary, sometimes disturbingly predictable and often just a passage of time to pass until he could run out to a crime scene, or a morgue, or a suspect with Sherlock, and feel alive, needed and in the eye of the storm again. And that, there, was the problem. His life without Sherlock offered very little excitement, and he had gradually begun to reason that maybe that was why he let Sherlock take over more and more of the other parts of his life. If he were to be able to keep some parts of his life uninvaded from the whirlwind that was his best friend, he had to actually want to keep the other part of his life. It had to have a value of its own. And not just that, it had to have an allure. Right now, it seemed… bleak.

And a big part of the allure of his life with Sherlock was the rush, the urgency, the chaos that somehow kept his own troubling thoughts down and the matter athand in focus. So, maybe the solution was simply to trying to find those factors in the other part of his life. It had begun as an abstract thought, simply a theorizing on his problems, but then he had, once again, runinto Mike Stamford. Mike had mentioned that so many of his young medical students wanted to go straight to work at the A&amp;E, even if they were not in any way prepared to handle the stress, the chaos, the fast decisions and the sometimes ugly sides of society that were just too obvious at an A&amp;E in London. He had said that more than young, energeticdoctors that had watched way too much E.R., they would need more people like John, who had seen things much worse than what an A&amp;E in a country far away from war could ever bring, competent to work with much less than what a modern hospital had in terms of equipment, personnel and resources.

He had not thought so much about it at the moment, just took the underlying compliment with a 'Ta' and kept talking for a few minutes before they had to part way. It was later that evening that he had thought about the words Mike had used, 'stress, chaos, fast decisions'. It was maybe some kind of sign. Not that John believed in signs. But once again, he had ran into Mike, and Mike had said something in passing, that seemed to fit right into the situation John was in at the time. The first time, it had led to Sherlock. This time, perhaps, it would lead to John being able to continue his life with Sherlock, but without losing himself in the man.

' to me. What's going on in that over-active brain of yours?'

Sherlock didn't stop tapping away on his phone, but John thought that perhaps, the tapping slowed down from 'blurry speed' to 'break neck speed'.

'Case.' The man simply replied in an obviously disinterested way, not looking up.

'Yes. I'm aware. But besides that, there's something, right?' John insisted, putting down his papers at the desk. He had found that being in a position that meant that he didn't have to look Sherlock in the eyes during those uncomfortable situations was tremendously helpful.

'No.'

The answer came rather abrupt, but still lacking any trace of engagement or interest.

'So… You're just irritated over the common things, like everybody's stupidity, the boredom of life and the appalling state of the criminal classes' intelligence?'

Sherlock didn't dignify that with an answer.

John couldn't keep back a sigh, and decided to let the subject drop. Sherlock was unlikely to give him anything to work with in his current mood. If John pushed the issue, it was highly likely that the outcome would be a slammed door or hours and hours of demonstrative and passive-aggressive silence. No one could pull offpassive-aggressive silence quite like Sherlock. His every cell was spiny, sulky and dismissive yet obviously very aware of just how much attention John paid him. If John ignored the sulking, the sulking would likely develop into full blown destructiveness.

He returned to his random browsing on the internet and tried to gather his thoughts. It had now been three days of unusually adverse sulking. After Sherlock rushed out that day, some hours after the 'alright conversation', he had been out of the flat for almost 24 hours. In the morning, when John found that Sherlock had not returned during the night, he had sent a text simply saying 'Case?', but he got no reply. He left for his (increasingly boring but somehow comfortably 'normal') work, having a full schedule and not being able to pass Sherlock's outburst more than a fleeting thought, which was kind of a relief. Still, he found he checked his phone more frequently than usual, hoping for a sign of life from Sherlock. When he returned to the flat, he was relieved that he was met by the sight of the Coat and the Scarf hanging at the hook he had grown to think of as 'Sherlock's'. There was no sign of the man himself in eitherthe sitting room or the kitchen, and the flat was unusually quiet, but the door to Sherlock's room was shut, and that in itself was a tell. The bedroom doors of 221B werenever completely shut if the occupant didn't specifically wished to not be disturbed. Not that that had ever stopped Sherlock from entering John's room without more than a hasty knock as warning.

Again sighing, John began preparing a sandwich and putting the electric kettle on. If that was how it was going to be, thenfine.

And it was, obviously, how it was going to be. Sherlock went to the bathroom once, late in the evening, but otherwise, he kept to himself in his room. John once called through the door, asking if he wanted tea, but got no reply.

The next morning, Sherlock was already up and in the sitting room when John got up. As usual, he was not greeted with as much as a nod, but it felt good just to see Sherlock, who seemed to be in his mind palace. Before John had made up his mind about asking or not asking Sherlock about if there was anything on for the day once he left his mind palace, Sherlock had snapped out of his catatonic-looking state and left for his room, dressing gown flapping behind him. The door slammed shut, and then there was only silence. Again.

Just when John had found an online forum about emergency care that he debated with himself if he was going to sign up and check it out, Sherlock stopped tapping on the phone and stared in front of him. John made sure not to look up from his keyboard, which was fairly easy, since he couldn't write without constantly eyeing to keyboard. There werea couple of minutes of silence. John kept trying to find a username for the forum, settling for 'Watson_UK'. Just as he was confirming his password (designed to be at least somewhat of a challenge for Sherlock, but he guessed that the date of his deployment, written backwards, would hardly keep Sherlock out for more than a minute or two) when Sherlock suddenly spoke.

'John. You will have to move out. I have tried to find another solution, but I haven't found a satisfying alternative. I realize that this will cause you some logistic inconvenience, but I am sure that Mycroft could assist in finding a new living arrangement for you, if you would like.'

Oh. Shit.

John, as usual, turned perfectly calm and alert when faced with a crisis.

'Alright… And how have we reached this mutual agreement?'

'It is not a mutual agreement.'

'No. Obviously. So, would you care to tell me why I have not been asked to participate in this decision-making about my living arrangement?'

'The reason is irrelevant for you, since the decision is already made and is final. If you're worried, as I am sure you are, being who you are, I can assure you it has nothing to do with anything you did.'

'Well, isn't that a relief.' John said, more bitterly than he intended, but he couldn't keep it in. 'So it has nothing to do with me, but I still have had a decision made over my head and get no explanation? How comforting.'

'No need to be sarcastic, John, if that was what you were going for.'

'No need to be sarcastic? No, clearly not. Actually, let's be polite instead. Lets see: Sherlock, would you be so kind as to explain to your idiot of a flatmate why you, without any warning, just decided that he has to move out without any notice?'

'Please, John, I have lived long enough with you to recognize that as even more sarcastic.'

'Oh, really? Well, since you have learned so much about social interaction from me, would you care to use that knowledge to acknowledge the need of offering your best friend an explanation as to why you're throwing him out without even seem to think him worthy of a reason?'

'And how would that help you?'

'How would that…? Sherlock. You are not stupid, usually, but now you're just obtrusive! That would help by letting me understand how I went from being your flatmate, colleague and best freakin' friend to being thrown out on the street?'

'I am not throwing you out, John. I am fully prepared to ask Mycroft to help you find a satisfactory new arrangement and let you stay here until that's been arranged, which should not take more than a day or two.'

'You know what, Sherlock, cut that crap. Now, tell me why on earth this seems to make sense in your head?'

John's anger was now showing in his tone of voice. He was glad Sherlock was not atan angle that allowed him to deduce him more from the tension in his body, the expression of his face and the look of his eyes (probably just as open and obvious as they usually were to Sherlock).

'I'd rather not. It will not do either of us any good spelling it out.'

'Well, it won't do many good you not spelling it out either, so if I have any say in this, I would very much like to hear your reasoning.'

Sherlock fell silent, John stared at his screen. He was unsure whether he was more pissed offor more terrified.

'Your presence is disturbing my thought process as of lately, and I realize that this 'friendship thing' might not be a good match for a sociopath with a drug problem, and I figured that it would be better to ensure that I can focus on important matters, and you didn't have to keep getting disappointed by my behaviour and hoping, in vain, that that will ever change.'

'What? I'm disturbing your thought process? By what, breathing, thinking? Would you rather I stopped doing those? And no, you're not a sociopath, you said to do 'my research' to Anderson, and while he probably was too much of an ass to do so, I did. The conclusion was that you're not a sociopath, sorry to bring that to you.'

'The label is hardly the issue here, John. I am, whatever you chose to name it, incapable of changing into someone who is in any sense of the word 'sympathetic' or even 'kind'. And since that causes you discomfort and you are not willing to accept it, you will continue to be in discomfort as long as our arrangement continues. And, furthermore, I find all these emotions you keep leaving around the flat as some kind of fingerprints or breadcrumbs to be utterly and increasingly annoying, and it interferes with my thinking. Therefore, the logical thing to do is to put a stop to this.'

'Do you really think that I would still be here if I felt continuously uncomfortable with who you are?'

'You are a person who thrives in making sacrifices for others, probably because that's part of your identity since early childhood, when you had to take care of your sister and partly your father, while your mother drank herself into stupor and harassed everyone around her. Of course you would stay. I am pointing out how idiotic that is.'

'Oh, you're playing the 'deduction card', trying to shock me by revealing personal details that you hope will make me angry and run off. You know what, I am not shocked, or angry. I figured that of course you knew all that, I figured that you deduced that the very day we met. No news there.'

'Of course I deduced it within minutes, it was all too obvious.'

'And still, you asked me to move in. And now, you want me to move out. What changed, Sherlock? Couldn't deduce that you would grow annoyed with me?'

'Honestly, I figured you were smart enough to move out as soon as your limp was cured and you realised how I was to live with.'

'So the amazing Sherlock Holmes' got it all wrong? That was a first. Now, let me ask you again, what changed?'

Sherlock didn't reply directly. It took almost three full minutes (John checked the clock at the bottom of his laptop screen while waiting for either a reply or one more slamming of doors) before Sherlock cleared his throat, hardly audible, and spoke.

'I did. And I thought that I could handle that. Turns out I can't. There; there it is; I admit my failure. Enjoy it.'

Now it was John's turn to hesitate before replying.

'Are you afraid that you've become… more human?'

Sherlock snorted disgusted at that.

'Hardly. It's more of a chemical response in the brain to being in close proximity over long periods of time with a person and becoming used to having them there. It's as simple as that, a change in neurotransmitters due to a constant input of another person being nearby and somewhat not boring. It's in itself boring and predictable, but I had thought that my brain and transport would not react so horribly ordinary to these external stimulations. As I said; my estimate was not correct.'

'So you're basically saying that you grew what… fond of me?'

'If you like to put it that way, then yes, I guess that would be a way to put it. And don't come with all your 'that's human, Sherlock' or 'that's positive', because it is not. At all. Now, make up your mind whether you would like me to ask Mycroft to find you a new place or not.'

With that, he stood up, put his phone in the pocket of his dressing gown and went into his room.

* * *

_**End note;**_

Codependency is neither a diagnose (even if some researchers has proposed it become an own personality disorder in the DSM) or a symptom listed in the DSM. It's still a term that is used in many professions' and in many groups, especially concerning people living with someone with substance abuse or alcoholism.

Wikipedia (yes, I will continue to quote Wikipedia here, since it has short summary's and everyone can find it to look it up, unlike most of the literature I have on these subjects, which are mostly not in English) defines Codependency as follows:

"Codependent relationships are a type of dysfunctional helping relationship where one person supports or enables another person's addiction, poor mental health, immaturity, irresponsibility, or under-achievement. Among the core characteristics of codependency, the most common theme is an excessive reliance on other people for approval and identity."


	4. Chapter 4 - Intellectualization

_John POV_

The door didn't slam this time. Sherlock just closed it behind him, like he had just announced that he was tired and going to bed early (the thought of that was, though, unheard of, so really, it was an appalling comparison). What he had, in reality, said, was amazingly even more incomprehensible.

John shut the lid of his laptop, put it under his arm and went slowly up to his room, and closed the door in the same controlled manner as his (ex-) flatmate had just done.

Sitting on his bed, his laptop on the neatly made covers beside him, he tried to understand what had happened. The small hint of panic in the back of his head was kept in control by his habit of reacting to chaos and crisis in an almost automatic, emotionless way. Slowly, he did what the doctor and soldier in him told him was the only way to minimize the damage and control the situation; he looked at the facts, made an assessment of the situation and then formed a course of action.

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, he was in soldier mode as he knocked on Sherlock's door. He knew that the change was visible not only through his actions and his tone of voice, but also in his posture, as the emotionally immature man on the other side of the door had so readily told him that first day in the lab at Bart's. The thought of that day, of what it had been the beginning of, helped John to relax a fraction, letting his posture be a little less army-like and his facial expression going from soldier on a important but probably deadly mission to a doctor that was facing a patient who needed John to make the decisions for him but not accepting it, fighting it.

'Sherlock. I'm coming in now.'

There was no sound. John took a last breath before he opened the door.

Sherlock was sitting by the small desk he had quite recently bought with the purpose of storing more of his case related papers from being disturbed by either Mrs. Hudson or John, who both seemed to think that things that were in the sitting room was supposed to be kept off the floor, no matter how important they were. Even if the case had been closed for a couple of weeks, Sherlock might need his papers, but that was clearly not understandable to the mundane minds of those living with him. At least, that was what John had been assuming was his line of thought. Now, the man sat with his own laptop, looking up, annoyed.

'Have you decided? Should I text Mycroft?'

'Does Mycroft know about this?'

'If he didn't before, he would surely now' Sherlock said, unaffected. 'But yes, he knows.'

'And what is his opinion on this latest of your brilliant ideas?'

'He agrees with me completely. Normally, that in itself would cause me to second guess my decision, but in this case, no.'

'He agrees with you?'

'Yes. Therefore, I expect that he will quite happily agree to help you logistically.'

'Alright, whatever. Now, let me try something, would you?'

'What would that be?'

'Deducing.'

'John...'

'No. Hear me out and tell me if I am totally and fully wrong on this one, and if I am, I will let you alone and make preparations for moving out.'

There was no response from Sherlock, but he kept his eyes on John, not looking away.

'Is the thing you were, to be frankly, trying pretty hard not to tell me, in fact that you have fallen in love, and that this scares you shitless? And now, you want to solve the situation by throwing me out, hoping that those feelings will evacuate your mind if you evacuate me from your life?'

Sherlock held his gaze, but there was something deeply complicated going on with his facial expression, even though he hardly seemed to move a single muscle. If it had been under any other circumstances, John would have been fascinated by this facial acrobacy. As for now, he mostly held his breath, trying to appear calm on the outside, getting back to his detached determination.

'Very amusing, but hardly accurate. You miss to take into account the fact that I am incapable of such emotions as you suggest I harbour. And if I were to possess the ability to feel those… feelings, it still wouldn't be relevant, so I suggest that you go prepare you departure.'

John tried keep Sherlock's gaze, but his friend averted his eyes back to his laptop with clear dismissal.

'Why would it be irrelevant?'

'That's so obvious I should not grant that with an answer.'

'Oh, please, enlighten me.'

'Very well' Sherlock said, sounding rather exasperated. 'I'm not interested in that kind of relationship since I lack the necessary emotions, interests and skills that would prove useful under such circumstances. You are not interested either, since you are, as you are rather fond of exclaiming, 'not gay!'. Therefore, I would say that it's highly irrelevant.'

'What if you got one or more of those parameters' wrong in your assumption?'

'And what would that be, if you may? You are secretly gay and now wish to open the door to your metaphorical closet by engaging in sexual intercourse with a sociopath without any interest in such activities?'

'Here we go with the sociopath delusion again. I thought you hated repetition? Anyway, how about we test these assumptions? There can hardly be any more damage done to this friendship anyway, I would say.'

'Oh, there could definitely be more damage' Sherlock said dryly. 'I'm attempting damage-control, but you are clearly determined to throw that approach out of the window.'

'Yes, and you are attempting to through your best friend out of your life, how appropriate.'

Silence.

'How would you attempt to test these assumptions?'

Sherlock finally turned back to face John, although from across the room. His eyes were seemingly blank of emotion.

'By testing each and everyone one of those statements that you just made, I would suggest.'

'Why would you want to do that?' Sherlock said, actually sounding curious.

'Because unlike you, I am not ready to throw away the best friendship I have, although it is also the most frustrating and annoying friendship I ever had.'

'So you are what, willing to attempt at some sort of romantic relationship with me, even though you are not attracted to me and I am not interested in a relationship, in order to save this friendship?'

'That doesn't sound very clever, not when you put it that way. But, before you celebrate that little verbal victory of yours, my suggestion is that we examine if all those things you said just now really are true? If they are, it's a lousy idea. If the aren't, well, we'll just have to take it from there.'

'And how would we examine the rate of truth in these statements?'

The tone was doubtful, but not totally dismissive, which was a far better outcome than John had dared to hope for. Now, though, came the problematic part.

'Well, I don't know, that hypothesis and examination thing is far more in your area than mine, isn't it? You come up with some scientific approach. I don't know, make a spreadsheet or something!'

John was frustrated, but he was also well aware that he played on Sherlock's pride in those areas by announcing himself unable to come up with something. After all, showing off was one of Sherlock's biggest interests in life.

To his surprise, John caught a half second of something resembling a smile twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. It was over so fast that he was not entirely certain that it had actually been there.

'A spreadsheet would probably not be the most effective approach in these matters. And besides, I asked you to move out because all your emotions and their effect on me is bothersome, and your suggestion is to try and add more of the problem?'

'I'm suggesting that those 'effects' on you might not be so bothersome if they were reciprocated.'

'If you reciprocate my feeling of annoyance?'

'Is it annoyance that you experience, really, or is it annoyance over the feelings you experience?'

'That doesn't even make grammatical sense!'

Sherlock suddenly stood up, his chair pushed back so forceful that it almost tipped over, and he took three quick strides towards John, playing up the height difference seemingly to make John back off, out of the door while Sherlock loomed over him, eyes dark with frustration.

'I am very sorry that I misused the English language.' John said calmly, piercing his eyes into Sherlock's. 'Now, could you just shut up and decide whether you dare to experiment with this or not?'

'You still doesn't have a suggestion as to how such an experiment would be accomplished, and I am, quite frankly tired of you trying to postpone the inevitable, which is you moving out by offering to experiment with your heterosexuality and my ability to tolerate interfering emotions. I suggest you go pack now, because when I get back here, I wish to be alone.'

His voice was cold, detached and lacked every trace of the warmth John thought he had seen a glimpse of in that 'almost half smile' just minutes ago. He pushed to pass John in the doorway, but John had also lost his patience and grabbed a hold of Sherlock's arm with a bruising grip and crowded him towards the doorpost. He hesitated for just a second, then he got on his toes, pushed the other hand to Sherlock's cheek and part caressed, part held his head still as he leaned up and closed almost all the distance between them.

He stopped when there was only a few centimeters separating their lips, caught Sherlock's eyes, that was a surprising mix of astonishment, indifference and hesitance, that should logically speaking not be able to express all these things at once, yet seemed to do so. Sherlock didn't try to move away, he was tense and reluctant in his body language, but he was not actively trying to push John aside anymore.

'Now, could we get on to some kind of testing my hypothesis?' he said with an odd voice that he couldn't really recognise himself.

There was no reply, and after a second, John let his lips brush against Sherlock's. Warm air from Sherlock's nose, unmoving lips under his, the smell of Sherlock, so strong at this proximity and the tiny, almost unnoticeable twitch that he could feel in the two points of contact between their bodies, their lips and John's grip on Sherlock's forearm. Nothing more, nothing less. He backed away just an inch with his mouth before he again brushed his lips against his friend's. His friend, who was still unmoving.

John backed off, but kept his grip on Sherlock's arm. He forced himself to seek the other man's eyes, and was utterly unprepared to find that they were closed. Just as he noticed, Sherlock's eyes flew open and there was so many contradictions in that gaze that John himself began to feel totally lost. Then, Sherlock closed the distance between them, his lips met John's with a rather uncoordinated force and he kept pressing their mouths together as he let his free arm fumble to find the back of John's head and using his hand for even more leverage into the thing he did, which was probably supposed to be some sort of kiss. He held them together like that for almost a minute, moving his own mouth to nib at John's lips, but they were pressed to tight together by his grip on the back of John's head, so the effect was probably not what Sherlock had intended, it mostly felt like he tried to push different parts of John's lips between his own, not being able to decide what to do next.

Then, as suddenly as his appreciation of John's kiss had begun, it stopped. He released John from his grip, but John was too shocked to remember to release his own grip on his friend, so they stayed close, breathing uneven and in tandem without looking at each other.

Finally, John cleared his throat, his voice even more unrecognisable than just a minute ago.

'So, I'll take that as an agreement on the matter of giving this a try?'

And, shit, this had happened. Really happened. He had kissed Sherlock, who had kissed (if that was the word for what that had been) him back. If he was sure before that this was a trainwreck of an idea, he was now just too stunned to even care about his own doubts about this whole thing. This thing, that was sure to qualify itself to be a whole new level of bat shit crazy in their already derailed way of life.

Shit.

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

Intellectualization as a psychological defence mechanism, defined (once again) by Wikipedia:

Intellectualization is a defense mechanism where reasoning is used to block confrontation with an unconscious conflict and its associated emotional stress where thinking is used to avoid feeling. It involves removing one's self, emotionally, from a stressful event. Intellectualization may accompany, but is different from rationalization, the pseudo-rational justification of irrational acts.

Intellectualization is one of Freud's original defense mechanisms. Freud believed that memories have both conscious and unconscious aspects, and that intellectualization allows for the conscious analysis of an event in a way that does not provoke anxiety.


	5. Chapter 5 - Repression

_Sherlock POV_

'So, I'll take that as an agreement on the matter of giving this a try?'

John's voice was hoarse. Why? Why would John's voice turn husky from just two kisses? If what John had done really could count as a kiss, which was debatable. Sherlock had decided that it would be a gesture of enlightenment to give John a real kiss, not just some kind hardly noticeable lip touching. Well. The lip touching had actually been noticeable. More than noticeable, actually. It had almost been painful, but then Sherlock had never been one for light touches, the distinction between the touch hardly being there at all and the uncomfortable tickling sensations had always made him rather stressed. Still, John's lips had just felt a little like that. Most of all he had been aware of the warmth of his breath. That had been… acceptable.

He wasn't in love, that was just preposterous. The thought of it had hit him that day in the sitting room, but after walking around in London for some hours, he had come to the conclusion that yes, that feeling might be what other people defined as 'in love', but for him those same sensations meant something different. Other people's feelings when they were fascinated with another person seemed to be decidingly more 'noble'. Things like longing, adoration, wanting to make the other person happy, give them their everything and make the other person more complete. What he felt, if he ever felt anything more intense for another person, was not noble. That much was clear. That was the one thing that he had truly learned after the business with… [deleted].

No. He was not going to go there. This was to close. Deletion of that part of his life had only been half successful. The rest of those files, the files containing those sensations and memories, had to be avoided. If he came too close to them, the files he had managed to delete might be partially restored. And that… would be more than a little 'not good'.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock had kept his eyes on John's, but his mind had gone astray. Now he directed it back.

'I don't think that's wise' he concluded.

'And why's that?'

'I am not good, John. And I don't mean that in some kind of pathetic 'I'm not worthy of you' way. I mean just what I say. I am not good. And I am perfectly okay with that, but I don't particularly want that for you John. That's why I think it's best that you move out, move on. And besides, I do not posses those emotions you seem to think I harbour for you. Not the romantic kind. It's simply a fondness that has grown out of our competability in work and domesticity at the flat. And you don't posses those feelings either, so I don't really see the need for this.'

John stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's. It took a while before he spoke again.

'Well, I do. See the need for this. So, if you value our companionship like you claim to, I would like to at least give this a few days.'

'A few days of what, John?'

He knew his eyes had turned narrow and piercing, but couldn't really care. He felt both relieved and cornered.

'Of us. Just, you know, testing the waters. Nothing too fast, or too drastic. Just trying to let our guards down, a little. See where that leaves us.'

John must have seen some form of panic in Sherlock's face, because he quickly continued.

'I mean, not letting everything out and showing our every vounerablity, just, well, being open to the possibility of us feeling… something. For eachother.'

They both seemed to blush, Sherlock noticed, partially appalled at his transports reactions to things his brain didn't even react to.

'Sherlock, I really, really need us to at least try. You are the most important person in my life. If you throw me out simply because you're scared of feeling, well, anything, really, then I would at least know that I, that we, tried. Tried to see if that discomfort was lessened by giving your, eh, 'reactions' a little room, instead of keeping it in that giant brain of yours, going round and round like a washing machine.'

'I hardly see the logic in that. My problem is that all those… reactions I seem to have to closer companionship is severely distracting and quite frankly not very pleasant. Your solution the this problem is to try to increase those unwanted reactions. Even if those things, human relationships, are hardly my area, that does seem like a very odd solution.'

'Well, as you said, you're hardly an expert in these matters. And you trust expertise. So trust me.'

'I don't think that you have thought this through' Sherlock said, silently.

'Well, this might just be one of those situations where thinking too much will not be helpful.'

And with that, John suprised Sherlock yet again by leaning up, using his hand to angle Sherlock's face down towards him and give him one of those 'not quite kisses' again.

Since that 'not quite kissing' left more of a tickling sensation than a satisfactory one, Sherlock once again decided to put a little more pressure into it. The resulting kiss was more of a uncoordinated angling of heads and pressing of lips than he'd imaginied, but then, it was a long time since he'd last done this, and that hadn't been in any circumstances that resembeled this. Nothing really resembled this. This was shere madness. Still, it was something. Something to do until the unevidable destruction of what had, until very recently, been the most important relationship in Sherlock's life. John might think this utter stupid attempt at something else, something 'more' than friendship, would resolve the issue of the two of them coming to an end. It wouldn't. Sherlock could not live with all those… reactions that John had caused him lately, and John probably wouldn't be safe if Sherlock let those reactions turn into actions for more than a few days. And Sherlock didn't love. He simply destroyed what he thought was 'his'. Destroyed what he desired. So he had stopped to desire. Stopped to… [deleted].

There were lips, there were John's hesitant hands on Sherlock's waist and there were Sherlock's blood flowing a little faster than usual. There were John, trying to make the kiss softer, and Sherlock trying to make it harder. There were the two of them breaking apart, breathing a little too fast, a known sign of arousal, but also of stress, panic and loss of air.

This was not going to end well. This was too much like…

[deleted]

[deleted]

[deleted]

John must have caught on to the fact that Sherlock was not only far away in thoughts, but also distressed. Well, 'distressed' was hardly the word Sherlock would use, but it was that kind of word that John used to attribute to people looking the way Sherlock probably looked now. His lips came crashing against Sherlock's again, and this time, there was not 'not quite kissing'. When Sherlock snapped back from those deleted files and the sensation just thinking about them gave, and started to reciprocate, John's thounge was suddenly there, so inexplicably warm and foregein against Sherlock's lower lip. He startled unvolountarely, then accepted this new addition to the kiss and let the tip of John's tounge continue tracing the outline of his lower lip without further unwanted bodily reactions. Kissing John was not boring. It was actually surprisingly unpredictable, and as John continued to feel the seam of Sherlock's lips with that pointy tip of tounge, Sherlock found that the sensation of kissing John was somewhat like being in mortal danger. His otherwise very scattered mind, buzzing with thoughts on at least twelve different lines of thought at the same time, became crystal clear. There was only room for one thought at the time, only the essential thoughts that would ensure his survival. In this case, his mind was focused not so much on survival, but on sensation. He didn't know, didn't have a clue, of what John would do next. That had such a momentum for him that his mind seemed to get that sharp edge otherwise reserved to finding the last pieces of evidence in a complicated crime or struggling to find the only way to get out of an otherwise lethal situation. It was… unexpected.

'This okay?' John murmered into his lips, breaking the kiss just a second, but not moving away.

Sherlock gave that question all the answer it deserved, which was none, and crashed his lips back to John's, fierce with impatience. He was not sure what he was impatient for, but maybe it had something to do with the fact that this kiss had somehow stopped the constant buzzing in his head, given him a short respite. He was not impatient to take this further, physically speaking, not even sure if he would be able to do so, but he wanted that clearness in his brain to go on for just a little longer. Later, he would try to figure out how that clearness was connected to what they did, with John kissing him. Not now.

John might be easy to deduce in their everyday life, but in this, he was unreadable to Sherlock, probably due to his very limited knowledge of these things. So even if John had had his tounge tracing Sherlock's lips, it came as a small shock to find that that tounge was now pushing into Sherlock's mouth, parting his lips and just crowding in. That was… not as repulsive as he remembered it. It was not quite comfortable either, sending some kind of electric impulse straight from his mouth to his belly. It felt like a cramp, mostly. Not painful, but not pleasant. Still, his body responded almost without consulting his brain, and he hesitantly let the tip of his own tounge meet the invading tounge in his mouth. It was slick with saliva, John's or his own? It didn't taste anything in particular, so it might be his own, then. One more cramp in his belly. The warm, electric feeling moving down to his pelvis. Oh.

John made a sound into Sherlock's mouth. It was hard to analyse, since it was distorted by the acoustics of Sherlock's own oral cavity. It felt interesting, though, the vibrations procreating into his mouth. Sherlock could not remember if this was something he had felt before. There had been quite a lot of chemicals involved the previous times he had tried this. It had left his memory of those times partially blurry.

John's tounge in his mouth, slowly exploring. John's hands, now underneath his dressing gown but not underneath his t-shirt, firmly but absently massaging his lower back, keeping the distance between them as small as possible. His own tounge sometimes darting out to feel John's, his own hands cupped around the base of John's skull, forcing him to keep the kiss hard, as not to tickle. If he was to feel this, he wanted to really feel it.

Then, there was a sound. A buzzing sound.

Sherlock ignored it, as did John.

The buzzing stopped, then it began again.

Oh. Phone. Vibrations. On his bedside table.

John seemed to react as well, breaking them apart just a few millimeters, and it was enough, Sherlock's brain caught up and he took a few (admittably pretty clumpsy) steps to fetch the phone.

His voice was just like John's had been, a little bit off, a little bit hoarse when he answered. Then he litsened for half a minute before replying.

'We'll be there in twenty.'

He hung up, throwed the phone on his bed and began to shug off his dressing gown.

'Case, John. Call a cab, we need to get to the supermarket.'

John just looked at him for a few seconds, then he nodded and seemed to slip into professional mode. His back straightened and his facial expression became focused.

'Alright, let me get my phone.'

He turned around, and was halfway out of the room before he turned around and saw Sherlock buttoning his shirt with efficient movements.

'Just so you know, we don't have to do that again, or at least not… take it further. There's nothing saying that this needs to be physical. Just, so you know.'

Sherlock looked up, then nodded briefly before finishing the last button and search for his trousers in the piles on his floor.

When he looked up, John was gone from his line of sight and his mind was blessfully filled with the adrenaline from the short summary of the case Lestrade had given him.

The game was on, and his mind was once again focused.

This was what he needed. This was where he excelled. This was where he found meaning.

This was not like the mess that had…

[deleted]

[deleted]

[deleted]

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

This was the second chapter in a row dealing with defence mechanisms, but next chapter, we'll be exploring specific parts of diagnostic criterias (that's to say, not an entire diagnose, but one of the many criterias for it) of psychiatric diagnoses, so we're in for something different.

Now, as usual, a little help from Wikipedia:

Psychological repression, or simply repression, is the psychological attempt made by an individual to repel one's own desires and impulses toward pleasurable instincts by excluding the desire from one's consciousness and holding or subduing it in the unconscious. Repression plays a major role in many mental illnesses, and in the psyche of theaverage person.

Repression, 'a key concept of psychoanalysis, is a defense mechanism, but it pre-exists the ego, e.g., 'Primal Repression'. It ensures that what is unacceptable to the conscious mind, and would, if recalled, arouse anxiety, is prevented from entering into it'; and is generally accepted as such by psychoanalytic psychologists.

However, regarding the distinct subject of repressed memory, there is debate as to whether (or how often) memory repression really happens and mainstream psychology holds that true memory repression occurs only very rarely.


End file.
